uncertain waters
by ncfan
Summary: Tobirama's life gets turned upside down. 'Founders.'


Okay, part of the AU that I came up with for this series before certain manga chapters came out is that Hashirama is not a son of the Senju clan head, nor is he a member of the main branch. I'm just going to go ahead and have a different character be the clan head. This series was already AU anyways, it would be kind of weird to have a clan head that looks exactly like Hashirama but not actually be closely related to him, I thought the canon clan head was a bit of a jackass (even for the sort of setting he's in), I'd envisioned someone visibly older (and not a parent), and so on.

So, needless to say, the clan head is now an OC. If you have them, lodge your complaints with the button at the bottom of the page.

Also, in chapter 626, where the Hell was Mito? Where the Hell has Mito been through all of this horribly extended flashback? I mean, I'm kind of glad—I've been dreading the thought of exactly what Kishimoto's going to do with and _to_ her character—but she was supposed to have been the one who sealed the Kyuubi during Hashirama and Madara's battle at the Valley of the End, all by herself, and she's completely absent. Is Kishimoto going to retcon her sealing of the Kyuubi into something considerably less cool? Is he going to make it to where someone else sealed it into her? (I wouldn't put either of these things past Kishimoto) I suppose that the complete erasure of the roles of female characters in the story is par for course when we're dealing with Kishimoto, but it still makes me angry.

I own nothing.

* * *

Sometimes, okay, maybe a lot of the time, Senju Toka's opinion on her cousin Hashirama is that he's an idiot.

This opinion first formed seven years ago, when she was five and he was four, when Hashirama was insisting on training with shuriken even though he could barely throw a kunai straight. Kunai were much simpler tools, she told him; if he couldn't handle them, how on Earth was he supposed to be able to throw shuriken?

Hashirama didn't listen to her, of course, so supremely confident in his abilities was he. Not only did none of his shuriken even come close to hitting the target, he ripped open the skin on his palms and fingers and had to wear bandages for nearly two weeks. Toka can still remember the way his mother, then living, had fussed and scolded him, and since she is no longer with them, Toka will simply have to remember for her.

Since then, Hashirama has shown himself many more times to be an idiot. Yes, an idiot. Hashirama may possess miraculous control over plants, may be considered by many the reincarnation of the Sage of Six Paths himself, but he is Toka's younger cousin, the son of her aunt, and she can call him an idiot if she wants to. Especially considering what he's pulled this time.

"_I-I-I mean, is he alright?" Hashirama stammers, gesticulating nervously with his slightly shaking hands. "Are his ribs broken? Does he have a concussion or—"_

"_Smoke inhalation," is the physician Tadao's diagnosis, effectively cutting off Hashirama's stammering._

_They, Toka, Hashirama, Tadao and the boy he's examining are all huddled in the tent shared by Hashirama, Toka, a girl of the Senju clan, Minako, and two boys, a Senju named Susumu and a boy named Yori, who is not of the Senju. Minako, Susumu and Yori are nowhere to be found, and the boy has been laid out on Hashirama's bedroll._

_At this, a look of relief flitters over Hashirama's face before evaporating yet again. "Smoke inhalation? Are you sure?"_

"_Certainly. Look at his mouth and nostrils."_

_Hashirama leans forward; in the same moment Toka, who has to now been silent, leans forward as well. There are small burn marks around the boy's mouth and on his nostrils from having inhaled smoke, or maybe superheated air (Toka couldn't say which, being neither a physician or a significantly rare shinobi medic). "That's definitely a sign of smoke inhalation," the physician goes on. "From what you've told me, he was certainly in a place where he could inhale smoke."_

"_Is there anything you can do?"_

_Tadao shrugs. "There is a shinobi medic operating out of Kawano who could fix this in a few minutes. However, Kawano's more than a hundred miles away and his services don't come cheap. Anyone with the resources to do so isn't going to want to spend money on this boy, believe me. I'll bring a broth later," Tadao adds at the sight of Hashirama's crestfallen face. "It doesn't seem serious; he should wake up later."_

They were supposed to kill this boy, this survivor of that town just over the border of Kaminari. It's not the sort of order Toka likes, but that's just how it is: Leave no survivors so they won't be able to say that the Senju attacked later. Toka already has enough blood on her hands that a little bit more doesn't mean a whole lot to her. Maybe that's why she almost prefers the illusions of her genjutsu to reality. At least in her illusions, her hands are always clean.

It's nearly morning. The oil lamp sputters and the darkness of night has grown thin indeed.

Toka wonders why Hashirama is so willing to defend this boy, who still lies, small and prone, quite unconscious on Hashirama's bedroll, his breathing ragged like an old-time smoker. They have exchanged no words and have no bond with one another—Toka's not optimistic about the way the boy is going to react when he wakes up and finds himself in a strange place surrounded by strange people, without kin or home. Hiroaki tried to insist that the child be killed, but Hashirama went so far as to take his suit to the clan head; his unusual status in the clan is such that the head will actually listen to his suit.

Maybe it's just that sense of solidarity that comes from being an orphan in or connected to the Senju clan. Here, the orphans that stand in the shadow of the Senju clan look after each other. They make sure their similarly disadvantaged friends get enough to eat and have someone to help them get better weapons, warmer clothes, help for training, and so on. There are very few among the adults, even those who had been orphans themselves as children, who are willing to help them, so they must help themselves.

_Hashirama could never have killed this kid. When it comes down to it, I'm not sure I would have been able to, either. If I'd been by myself, I probably would have pretended not to see him or lied, saying that he was dead when he was still alive, and prayed that no one noticed the difference. But I know I wouldn't have gone this far. And Hashirama isn't done with how far he's going yet; to go so far as to appeal to the head… We're not even sure if he'll be able to save the kid yet._

"Well, I guess we'll find out soon enough," Toka mutters to herself, casting a glance at the white-haired boy as the beginnings of morning begin to crawl over her skin.

-0-0-0-

If Hashirama had to describe his relationship with the leadership of his clan, he would say that said relationship is unusual. Unusual in that, despite being a young boy still whose voice hasn't even broken, he can ask the clan head for a private audience and not be turned away with a derisive laugh and a sharp cuff upside the head. There are, he supposes, certain advantages to being the clan's golden boy, and if ever there was a time to put those advantages to good use, it's now.

That said, his constant thought at this moment is simply: _Remember to breathe._

The problem with this is that his head seems to notice.

"Well then, Hashirama. I believe we had something we needed to discuss."

Senju Hideyoshi sits half-bathed in the flickering glow of the oil lamp to his right, bracing a board on his knees; his hair, gone mostly-silver with age, glistens in the dim light. There's a slight wind fluttering from outside his tent, and the parchment on the board rustles before he puts it aside, folds his ink set shut, and fixes Hashirama in a piercing dark stare, balancing his chin upon the back of his hand.

Hashirama swallows and nods, never quite able to meet his head's gaze; he's never been those piercing eyes, nested as they are at the bottom of a pool of old, aged, fading and wrinkling skin. There's just something about the way Hideyoshi looks at you that seems to dig into your mind and ferret out every secret you've ever had. It's just good luck, he supposes, that it's impolite for a child from a cadet branch to look his clan head in the eye.

"I understand that you picked up a foundling from the town we clashed with the Uchiha in," Hideyoshi says. This is well-known to them both, and Hashirama wonders why he's stopping to reiterate it, but says nothing; he does, however, start to squirm a bit, uncomfortable in his heavy armor and the way it digs furrows in his skin, and he wishes the old man would get to the point. "Hiroaki-san was quite displeased with your insubordination."

The practiced neutrality in Hideyoshi's voice gives Hashirama some hope. "I couldn't kill him, Hideyoshi-sama."

Hideyoshi's lip twitches momentarily, the action almost grotesquely exaggerated by the deep shadows—whether this is the suggestion of a smile or a frown can not be said. "You'd been given what, to my mind, was an unambiguous order. Following that order should have led you to kill the boy, in order to keep him from giving information later. As I will emphasize, Hiroaki-san was quite displeased. He's calling for punitive action."

Hashirama's eyes snap up. "Then the order was wrong!" he blurts out. _And I don't care if Hiroaki thinks I should be punished. _"We're fighting the Uchiha and other shinobi bands, not civilians. The fighting wasn't even supposed to go _into _the town!"

At this, Hideyoshi sighs deeply. In the half-light, half-shadow, he looks old beyond his years, the lines carved deep into his skin. More than old, he looks like a face carved into a mountain, stained and weather-beaten by eons of wind and rain. The look he gives Hashirama is one the clan head of the Senju has given him before: tired and half-exasperated and almost pitying. "The world's not that black and white, child," he sighs, rubbing his forehead. "You are very powerful, but you are also very young. You know little of the world, and the way things are."

_I know well enough. I know that if you think that _this _is the way things should be, then you're wrong as well. _"If this is the way the world is, I'll just have to change it," Hashirama asserts confidently.

Hideyoshi shakes his head and, to Hashirama's surprise, laughs a bit under his breath. "How many times have I heard someone say that?" he seems to ask himself, staring off to the side, still smiling just a bit. "I'll tell you right now, child, that we all change the world just by being in it. If you want to make a _noticeable _change, you'll have to work far harder than you have already."

"Sounds fair." _But haven't I been working hard already?_

Drawing a breath to compose himself, Hideyoshi nods and turns serious once more. "Now, the future is the future, but what we are dealing with is the present. You are, I am assuming, utterly unwilling to change your opinion regarding the child you found?"

"Yes, sir."

"So tell me…" Hideyoshi's dark brown eyes gleam shrewdly "…What exactly will you do with him?"

To be honest, Hashirama hasn't thought all that much about that, and the question catches him off guard. He doesn't know what he'll do with the child he pulled from the wreckage of the town last evening; he hasn't got a clue. Hashirama supposes he could find someone to look after the child the next time the Senju hit up a town for supplies, but who would take him? The boy's looks are unusual and obviously foreign; most civilians will take one look at his bone-white hair and deem him unlucky, unsafe, or both. "I… don't know, sir," he is forced to admit, staring down at the grass.

The oil lamp sputters and Hideyoshi leans over to attend to it. While doing so, he remarks, "You are aware of the punishment for insubordination, are you not, Hashirama?"

Hashirama grimaces and nods. Yes, he's well aware of it. Shinobi who defy orders given to them by superiors are given three choices: Do you want to be whipped, flogged, or spend three months in the closest thing the Senju have to prison? The third choice is the least likely to be chosen. Those who do spend three months in a small, dark tent with only his thoughts for company and a seal restricting the use of his chakra itching at his throat. He's allowed outside only to relieve himself, and even then only twice a day, and blindfolded as well so he won't see the outside world. Meals are thin, watery rice gruel, three times a day, and if you don't eat all of what you were given at breakfast, you'll just get your leftovers (and nothing else) for lunch.

"I thought you would be. I will let the boy live—" Hashirama's face lights up "—but the fact of the matter still stands: you have disobeyed orders, and need to be punished." Hashirama cringes. "I can, however," Hideyoshi goes on, that shrewd gleam still glittering in his dark eyes, "think of a far more fitting punishment than the usual prescriptions for insubordination."

Hashirama waits for a few moments for Hideyoshi to tell him exactly what his 'punishment' is to be. He has again averted his gaze from his head and instead stares down at the brown, wiry grass, momentarily wondering how much effort it would take to call up richer, softer, greener grass to sit upon instead. When the clan head shows no sign of wishing to elaborate without first being asked, Hashirama braces himself and asks, "And what might that be, sir?" Hashirama wishes he could tell himself that Hideyoshi wouldn't tell him to do anything too ridiculous, but in all honesty, he can't be sure of that.

Reaching for his flask (some have pegged the Senju clan head a drinker, but Hashirama thinks that's silly; _anyone _could tell by the aroma that it's tea Hideyoshi's drinking, not spirits), Hideyoshi chuckles dryly. "Haven't you guessed?" When no response is forthcoming, he makes a tsk-ing noise deep in his throat. "Alright then, I'll tell you.

"You are to look after the boy—don't interrupt me, Hashirama, I'm not done yet! Henceforth, you will be responsible for the child. You will feed him, clothe him and care for him. When he breaks something, you will pay to have it repaired. When he steals something, out of your hide will the restitution be taken. The boy will be watched, and if he showed signs of being disloyal to us, he will be killed—we can not take the risk that he will prove a potential danger to us. You will also see to it that the boy learns to fight. When the time comes that he is of an age to fight for us, if he is sufficiently loyal, your obligation to care for him will come to an end. That is your punishment. Do you understand?"

Slowly, Hashirama nods. "Yes, sir."

His gamble paid off, but he wasn't expecting this, not at all. As Hashirama is dismissed, he blinks against the golden dawn light, suddenly more exhausted than ever, and wonders exactly how he's going to deal with this.

-0-0-0-

The last thing Tobirama remembers, he had crawled beneath a bit of rubble, head aching and lungs searing, trying desperately to get away from the fighting. He'd gotten lost, with no idea where his parents were, but that no longer mattered a great deal—all Tobirama cared about was the chaos going on all around him, and the overwhelming need to get away from it.

Blood was flying, thick and red, screaming, the breath of life trapped within each drop, dying a fast death as it splattered against the ground. The song of steel against steel rang out all around, cold and sharp and shining. Tobirama couldn't make out their words, but he was far more concerned with their edges and their capacity to hurt him. As the smoke rose around him, it became harder to breathe, harder to keep his eyes open, until finally, it was impossible.

His father, a nationalist to the last, had always said that the shinobi of Hi no Kuni, "a wild, chaotic country", were a lawless rabble with no respect for civilians, and no respect for anyone who lived beyond their borders. He was right, it seems.

Tobirama doesn't know how long it's been since he fell into smoky sleep, but when he does wake up, the first thing he is aware of is pain. Centered on his chest, the pain is constantly there, dull and aching. When he draws breath, the pain is sharp, stabbing, raw, like someone's drawn over his throat with one of Mama's kitchen knives. He opens his eyes to stare up not at the sky or at wood beams, but at green cloth.

"Hey, he's awake!"

Over the next few moments, Tobirama realizes three things: he is in a tent, lying on a bedroll, so that must mean that he's no longer at home. He feels his hands start to shake, a sick feeling twisting and furling in his stomach, as he wonders where he is, and what's going to happen to him. The fact that he's not alone in the tent makes him feel no better, and the eventual realization that the others are all kids like him, albeit older kids, doesn't help all that much.

There are five kids here, three boys and two girls. The boy who exclaimed "He's awake!" is the one closest to him, practically leaning over him, a tall boy with light brown skin and black hair past his chin. His brow is furrowed and his face oddly stretched. He's wearing armor with the crest of the Senju on…

Senju. There are the Senju.

Of all the shinobi clans of Hi no Kuni, the Senju are one of the most notorious. They and the Uchiha both claim the blood of the Sage of Six Paths and look down on those who don't possess it. The Senju strafe the land. They are ravening beasts. Some say they eat the children of their enemies.

If Tobirama were a bit more awake, a bit more aware, he would probably be panicking a bit more than he is. As it is, his stomach is churning, but he can't make his mind grasp the danger, not entirely.

"Come on, sit up." The boy in dull red armor slips his hand under Tobirama's back and props him up. His tone is gentle, even intentionally soothing; it's the tone Tobirama's parents take with him when they feel he's being "unreasonable", and he hates it. Still, it's better than being boiled in a pot and served up with carrots and stuffing. "What's your name?"

Tobirama tries to tell him, but when he opens his mouth all he can do is cough spasmodically. The boy uncorks a goatskin and holds it to Tobirama's lips. "Drink it. The water's clean, I swear." Clean indeed, and cold and sweet. Tobirama gulps it down greedily, feeling his throat ease a bit with each swallow.

"Man, Tadao-sensei was right," one of the kids mutters. "He sounds awful."

"Hush."

When Tobirama drinks the goatskin dry, the boy puts it aside and smiles, incongruously friendly for the armor he wears and the multiple weapons that Tobirama can now see strewn about the ground: an axe, several knives, an archery bow with a quiver of arrows nearby, and a single sword, secure in its scabbard. "Let's try this again. What's your name?"

"Tobirama," he croaks, still barely able to talk.

"Well that's good," one of the girls mutters, looking pointedly at the boy asking the question. "His name sounds like yours."

The boy doesn't look at her. "Just Tobirama? No family name?" Tobirama shakes his head—he and his family are peasants; what did he expect?—and the boy asks, "And how old are you, Tobirama?"

"Four. But I'll be five in February." Tobirama's been proud of that for months now.

The five kids exchange glasses in silence, eyes wide. The girl standing near the tent flap, framed in the glow of early morning light, shrugs a bit, and that seems to be enough for the boy in the armor. "Well, I'm Senju Hashirama, and I'm eleven years old." He looks to the others. "Guys?"

The girl standing at the pinned-open tent flap, a girl with dark brown hair and a narrow face, shifts her weight a bit. "Senju Toka, twelve."

Kicking his heels against the turf, a boy sitting on his bedroll speaks up next. "I'm Senju Susumu and I'm eleven years old." He shakes a bit of his messy brown hair out of his eyes.

The next one to speak is a girl with a round face, freckles and the shortest hair Tobirama's ever seen on a girl, black strands barely brushing her jaw. "I'm Senju Minako, the same age as Toka."

Finally, the boy sitting on top of a chest pushed to the edge of the tent speaks. "Yori," he says simply, with a brief flash of teeth in a smile. "Twelve." He looks different from the others, Tobirama notices, with fair hair, light gray eyes, and even plainer clothes than the already pretty non-descript garb the others are wearing.

The introductions out of the way, Tobirama can feel his head spinning a bit, struggling to keep a hold of the names in his head. They still haven't answered the most important questions of all (Why is he here? and When is he going home?), but no one seems to care at all about that. The boy named Hashirama smiles again, the furrow marks reappearing, deep and sharp, on his brow and around his mouth. "Look, Tobirama, you're going to be staying with us from now on."

_What_? Tobirama stares at him uncomprehendingly, red eyes (Dad always said his eyes were an omen, though of what no one could say), open wide and glazed. The words said by him just will not register and sink into the folds of his brain.

Then, it hits him.

"I… I wanna go home," Tobirama protests, voice quavering. "I wanna go home! Where's my Mom and Dad?!"

Hashirama squeezes his eyes tightly shut, as if in pain. "I… I'm sorry, Tobirama. They're… They're probably dead. You're going to have to stay here. There's nowhere else."

Needless to say, Tobirama's not having any of this. When his voice rises again, it's accompanied by thick, sticky tears dribbling forth from his eyes, clogging in his nose and mouth. "I wanna go home! I—"

Crack.

It takes Tobirama a moment to realize what's happened. Hashirama didn't slap him hard enough to hurt him, or leave a mark later, but it still stings and he stares, open-mouthed at him, as the boy withdraws his hand, lip twitching slightly. "I'm sorry," he mutters, staring down at the ground. When his dark eyes snap up, they're horribly piercing. "But there's nowhere else. If you want to stay here, if you want to be _safe _here, you're going to have to stop saying things like that. You _can't _cry over your parents anymore."

Tobirama spends the rest of the day huddled at the far corner of the tent, as far away from everyone else as he can get. The others awkwardly avoid him, avoid even looking at him, except for the time when Hashirama brings him food in rough wood bowls and all but forces him to eat.

-0-0-0-

It's night now, cold even beneath layers of blankets, cloaks, coats, scarves and such—those without the money to afford better make do with what they have. One of Minako's scarves lies near Tobirama's head, the bold blue and gold patterns lost to the darkness of night. She seems to have spilled a perfume bottle on it in the past, or something; the scarf's been doused in a sweet, almost musty scent.

Everyone but him is fast asleep, the tent silent except for faint, easy breathing. The wind batters on the tough canvas roof and walls, and all huddle together for warmth; Tobirama is sandwiched between Hashirama and Yori, the latter's elbow digging into his side. No fire, no hot coals; the tent isn't configured to accommodate them and Toka assures everyone that with no ventilation they'd die from the smoke inhalation, a fate Tobirama's already had too close a brush with to want to risk again.

Tobirama lies awake, listening to the breathing of the sleepers around him, and remembers.

Three days have passed since he first woke up in this tent. He's gone from terrified to horrified to melancholy to numb. He hasn't cried, hasn't wanted to cry, bearing witness to how parents treat their children here when they show such emotions, and spends most of his time staring, silent and shock-eyed, at the ground, speaking only when addressed.

In those three days, Tobirama has learned some things about his situation. He was supposed to be killed, but now Hashirama is taking care of him as some sort of punishment for not killing him, or something—Tobirama didn't really understand most of Hashirama's explanation. The gist, however, was clear: step out of line and die. Tobirama's had plenty of time over the past few days to become properly acquainted with his own mortality, knows it well enough now to know that dying is something he would like to avoid, and figures it best to simply keep his head down.

The only interaction Tobirama has had with an adult in these three days is the physician who brings him broth and foul-tasting medicine for his throat and lungs. On the occasion when he goes out of the tent, dragged outside by Hashirama to pick up clothes or water from the river, the adults ignore him. The kids, on the other hand, stare unabashedly at the newcomer, eyes roving over his white hair and foreign features, whispering, though he tries not to hear.

Hashirama tries to be kind. Tries so hard that it's almost painfully obvious that he'd never intended to be put in the role he plays now. Never raises his voice, never frowns or scolds, seems tentative even to try and lay down ground rules. Those with a better grasp of the situation would probably say that he's too young to be taking care of a child and knows it. Tobirama's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Hashirama to give up, and toss him to the wolves. Tobirama understands how people get bored when the novelty of a situation wears off. It seems like only a matter of time before that happens.

What will happen to him in the meantime? Are his parents really dead? What's happened to everyone he knew in the town where he was born? These are the questions that plague Tobirama in the dead of night when he can't sleep.

The wind's still howling. The high, wailing wind seems to reflect his own feelings back at him, loneliness and fear and anger all mixed in one mind. Eventually, sleep finds Tobirama as well, and he falls into a shallow, uneasy slumber.

-0-0-0-

"Come on outside; I'm teaching you how to throw kunai."

Tobirama stares up at Hashirama incredulously, wondering if he can hear the wind outside and feel the bitter cold seeping into the already pretty chilly tent. Even in the hodgepodge of warm clothing Hashirama and Toka procured for him, he's still feeling rather nippy himself, and now Hashirama wants to go outside? It's completely absurd!

"I don't wanna," Tobirama mutters, burying his nose in his scarf (Thankfully not one of Minako's). "I don't wanna be a shinobi." He'd _wanted _to be a tanner like his father, even if the chemicals his father had used to tan the hides had stank to high heaven. He has no desire to fight for a clan that razed his home and killed everyone he knew.

That stretched, tense look comes over Hashirama's face, as it often does. "Well you're going to have to," he says all too lightly. Hashirama digs through the bag sitting with his rolled-up bedroll, and comes out with a battered leather satchel. "This is a shinobi clan, and we all have to pull our weight here."

Which Tobirama will take to mean: If you don't do this, they'll kill you. Okay, then. He'll learn how to throw kunai. He will not, however, like it. Liking it would be too much to ask. Without another word, Tobirama sits up, brushing off his trouser legs. Hashirama smiles, half-relieved and half-genuinely pleased, but Tobirama doesn't feel its warmth in his heart.

As they pass other tents, Tobirama finds himself deeply enticed by the warmth of the cooking fires all around him, but keeps moving. The quicker he starts to learn how to throw kunai, the quicker he'll be _done _learning how to throw kunai, and the quicker he'll be able to go back to the tent, or maybe huddle around one of those fires, if the one tending it will let him. He feels practically frozen; Tobirama would greatly welcome any bit of snatched warmth.

Finally, they stop just beyond the edge of the settlement, where a target has been pinned against a tree. Hashirama kneels down and undoes the ties on the leather satchel, to reveal several kunai. "I came into a bit of money a couple of months ago," he remarks, though why he's telling Tobirama this the latter couldn't say, "so I was able to afford to replace my kunai with higher quality steel."

"Why do you want to be a shinobi?" Tobirama asks suddenly.

To be honest, this question's been nagging at him since before he ever came into contact with a shinobi. Sure, he likes—liked—playing ninja with his friends, but the real thing just seemed really dangerous and not fun at all, and just completely thankless work. Shinobi don't really settle down and live in nice houses with plenty of food and warmth. They live like this: in tents without enough food, clothes or warmth, selling their services to whomever promises even the slightest amount of cash. The problems with this are obvious even to a four-year-old. To Tobirama, that doesn't seem like any way to live.

Hashirama looks up at him and stares Tobirama in the eyes for a long moment. The question seems to be more important than Tobirama had guessed it would be; Hashirama's eyes are bright, piercing, questioning. He looks down and draws a deep breath.

"Well," Hashirama says finally, "for one thing, in Hi no Kuni being a shinobi is pretty much the only way you're ever going to be able to change the way things are. Civilians don't have the power to do that, not even the aristocrats or the Daimyo himself. We live in a world where the only thing that can change the status quo is the might of ninjutsu and the sword." He smirks suddenly, looking to the side. "Also, I can do _this_."

He points his hand towards a clear patch of earth. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, the ground starts to bulge. Tobirama watches, open-mouthed and gaping, as a five-foot-tall oak sapling presses its way up through the earth, its slender limbs stretching and tender green leaves unfurling to soak up the weak autumn sunlight.

"That's cool, right?" Hashirama beams, grinning widely. "Isn't that cool?"

"I want to do _that_," Tobirama blurts out, as soon as he regains his faculties of speech. "Forget kunai; I want to do _that_." He might not be terribly enthusiastic about the idea of becoming a shinobi but the idea of being able to grow plants with ninjutsu is too awesome to pass up.

Hashirama's smile fades a bit. "Ah… I'm sorry, Tobirama, I can't. I'm the only one who can do that. Don't ask me why!" he follows up quickly, seeing the younger boy open his mouth in protest. "I don't know why I'm the only who can do that; I just am. But…" He leans down to pick up a kunai from his satchel, and press it into Tobirama's hand. "…Maybe we can just start with kunai, okay?"

Tobirama nods, and, for the first time, thinks that it might be alright.

* * *

The more I wrote, the more I thought to myself: You know, this is reading a lot as though Tobirama has Stockholm Syndrome. *Grumbles irritably to herself* Well fine, Tobirama has Stockholm Syndrome. It's not what I meant, but it'll have to be what is.

On a slightly less psychologically messed up note, I went to an event downtown where I'm living while at college today. At a table selling bowls, there was in the base of two bowls a swirl mark nearly identical to the crest of the Uzumaki clan. One of them was red-and-white, and the other was red-and-gold. I bought the red-and-white one; I call it my "Naruto bowl."


End file.
